Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Path: netcom.com!netcomsv!decwrl!elroy.jpl.nasa.gov!swrinde!cs.utexas.edu!geraldo.cc.utexas.edu!portal.austin.ibm.com!awdprime.austin.ibm.com!clayton From: clayton@austin.ibm.com (Clayton Colwell) Subject: [Welcome] Braddoc's "Story" Originator: clayton@magus.austin.ibm.com Sender: news@austin.ibm.com (News id) Message-ID: Date: Fri, 6 Aug 1993 17:04:04 GMT Reply-To: archmage@vnet.ibm.com Organization: IBM Advanced Workstations & Systems Lines: 153 [ADMIN: This takes place after Ja'nis finishs her tale. My newsreader is having fits, so I don't know if she's done yet or not, but this *should* fit in with little trouble (I hope).] In article <93216.103826ASG102@psuvm.psu.edu>, The Dreamer writes: > > --OO--OO-- > > From a center table rises the form of a golden skinned half-elf wearing a > cloak that blends into the shadows and flows like thick smoke. He looks > around the room, raises his glass, and says in a clear, but not overly- > loud voice, "My friend and I are looking to meet some of the newer patrons > that I see about me. Therefore I open an invitation to any who would accept > it. For a name and a story, I offer a glass of wine and night of friendly > company." He finishes with a sweeping bow of subtle grace and sits again > at the table, waiting to see who answers his call. Upon hearing the invitation, Braddoc looked over at the golden- skinned half-elf: tall, distinctive, wearing a cloak of blackest ebon that brought tears to his eyes and almost a cry to his throat; what he saw through the monocle was chaotic, seething, brimming with possibili- ties. The madly-conflicting images that arose gave Braddoc a searing headache. He quickly removed the monocle and rubbed his eyes, pressing his palms into the sockets. The pain left after a few minutes, giving Braddoc a respite, time to ponder, "Well, I *do* need information about this plane, and the history of other inhabitants may help. Yes, let's see how far the tale has spread, and how much I can afford to reveal." Grabbing his tankard, Braddoc stood up from *his* dark corner and ap- proached the table. A tall, muscular woman with a military air about her was speaking to those assembled there. "May I?", he asked a golden- skinned elf, companion of the ebon-cloaked half-elf. The elf appraised him with ebon eyes, which grew wide with astonishment. He motioned distractedly to an empty chair at the table, next to another woman, also of warrior mien. "Thank you," said Braddoc, as he sat carefully down. He noted the presence of another listener nearby, a rakish human with oddly- spiked blond hair, wearing a flowing silk shirt and bright white trousers. Fresh and not-so-fresh mug-sized rings dotted the listener's table, indicating a long day spent in refreshment. He nodded to the listener as well. Braddoc listened to the warrior's story, trying to glean information about Generica and Nexus at large. From time to time, he'd brush imagined lint from his plain brown robes, surreptitiously checking his carried goods, instinctively wary of any group in close quarters. Her tale came to a close, accompanied by appreciative murmurs all around. Some light chatter lingered in the air, but there came a palpable pause; Braddoc was quick to take the initiative, as he straightened the silver circlet binding his hair and cinched up his belt, drawing attention. Braddoc stood up, cleared his throat, and addressed the group assembled. So as not to wake the tiny babe at Luthor's breast, he spoke softly, yet distinctly. "My name is Darius, and I *do* have a tale to tell." He bit his lip pensively. "It's not a pretty one, but it is time to tell *some*one." He took a deep swallow, finishing off his tankard, and began: "My father was a powerful mage in my homeland. He had knowledge of awesome magicks, of dweomers puissant and farreaching. He did his best to teach me what he could, but I learned but slowly, for he spent most of his time adventuring, questing, or simply gathering herbs. One day, he disappeared from our tower -- not in itself unusual. He was gone for about 8 days when a packet arrived at the doorstep of the tower. "No messenger had sent it; it merely *arrived*. My name was scrawled in an elaborate hand across the front sheet; it was a missive of some sort. I brought it inside and began reading. It told a strange tale, a story of a woman become goddess, a goddess so torn with human emotion that she forsook her divinity to wreak vengeance, to eradicate from the multiverse a motley collection of associates -- of whom my father was one! She had an old score to settle (one not mentioned in this chronicle, however). "The woman had failed somehow, for the group was not obliterated, but merely afflicted, suffering disease, curse, and imprisonment. The missive ended there. "This, of course, caused me great distress. I brought it to a trusted local mage, to see what magickal influences he could detect, to bring insight to this disturbing news. He could neither confirm or deny the story; all spells were blocked or clouded. I went home, troubled. Over the next three days, I sought out other mages, sages, scribes. No one could give me insight. "Coming home from a visit to a renown sage, I spied another packet on the doorstep. My name was on this one as well, in the same elaborate hand. I quickly tore it open; it contained another missive, a continuation to the first I had received! Reading this new story, I discovered that one of the group, a master thief by trade, had contrived for them an escape from their prison, while a holy warrior and a humble follower of Mogush, a god of magic, worked to free them of disease and curse. I read further, seeking news of my father. The missive had little to say, save that he was fit enough. The missive ended with the newly-freed group finding a mystic dagger and a strange charge to seek out others of its kind. I breathed easier, realizing that my father was questing once again. I was only worried by two matters: the inability to pierce the impenetrable wards concealing the true nature of the matter, and the deliverer of these odd missives. "Weeks passed. Every three days or so, I would receive another missive, a new chapter to this shrouded story. I read them thoroughly, but no clues to his whereabouts could I discern. "One night, I was awakened by a crash of thunder and the sounds of glass breaking in my father's room. I ran to his door, thinking that a demon had escaped its wards. Instead, I saw him there, *my father*, bathed in a glowing blue aura. He was rushing through the room, grabbing powders, wands, equipment. His concentration was total: he ignored the alembics and experiments his passage accidentally brushed to the floor. He did not listen to my frantic questions. All he said before he winked out was, 'Beware the Lady. If she comes for you, take the archway Out.'" Braddoc paused in his tale, as Serene furnished him with a full tankard of the same Drow vintage he'd been enjoying. Taking a long pull from the glass, he continued: "The missives became dark. The group was splintering; accusations and mistrust abounded. And, in the end, this group my father was with removed themselves from the quest." Braddoc's voice broke here. "They fought amongst themselves; this ex-goddess had poisoned the minds of some. My father and the master thief tried to stop the fighting, to no avail. In the course of this blood feud, the ex-goddess, mortal once more, came for them, bearing the last of the mystic daggers, a dagger of death. Its sting took both my father and the thief." Braddoc gasped, tears starting to fall. "Its bite destroyed them -- body, soul, and essence." The tears fell freely now as Braddoc said, "As I finished this last terrible page, our tower was washed in blue, the same blue light that had limned my father on his last visit. The sky above clouded, and, as thunder began to crash all around, the clouds coalesced into a face, wicked, twisted, triumphant. A Woman's face. As the tower began to shiver to pieces, I remembered my father's last words; I grabbed what little I could and ran through my father's personal gate." Braddoc paused, his shoulders slumping. "It brought me here." Sighing, drying his eyes carefully on the sleeve-ends of his robes, he sat, his head bowed. To himself, he thought, "Now we see. Who recognized the truth? Who pierced the falsehood? *Who* *dare* *I* *not* *trust*?" -- Clay Colwell "If homosexuality is a disease, then let's all call archmage@vnet.ibm.com in queer to work." - Robin Tyler IBM Austin, TX Disclaimer: This is *Clay* talkin', not IBM.